


It's Not Christmas 'Til You Come Home

by sciosophia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background GingerPilot, Background Relationships, But it's there, Christmas, Committed Relationship, Devoted Reylo, Dorks in Love, F/M, Holidays, Idiots in Love, New Year's Eve, New Years, OR IS IT, Reunions, Separations, and wants to give her a perfect christmas at new year, armitage hux is lowkey the ghost of christmas present, because i know basically nothing about it, ben is a snob about wal-mart, ben misses his girlfriend, brief mentions of equestrianism, i now know a lot about chicago, snow is here to ruin everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 17:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciosophia/pseuds/sciosophia
Summary: “So, let me get this right.” Poe takes a bite of the gingerbread man he hasn’t paid for yet. “Rey has no idea that you—thatI'm—turning your apartment into a winter wonderland for New Year?”“I never saidwinter wonderland.” Ben hunches his shoulders and keeps pushing the cart. “I just want it to look…Christmassy.”...or, Ben Solo learns the true meaning of Christmas on New Year’s Eve.





	It's Not Christmas 'Til You Come Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wilson66](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilson66/gifts).



> .
> 
> Dear Wilson: Happy New Year! You've been an absolute delight in the Den and I was so excited to write a fic for you :) I hope you enjoy this little romp through your prompts...
> 
> The title comes from [ the song of the same name](https://open.spotify.com/track/5DoGwwQAlYumpSSlDNMOwY) by Norah Jones.

  


  


**25**

It’s eighteen hours into Christmas Day with his mother, and for the hundredth time Ben is thinking, _I miss Rey._

He slides his gaze over to where Leia is asleep on the couch, her glass of wine dangerously loose in her fingers. She’s starting to snore, her chin on her chest.

He takes the opportunity. His father’s old coat is still by the back door, and a pair of garden shoes, and he shoves both on and steps outside. The air in the Hamptons is almost freezing; as good an excuse as any to smoke. Keep himself warm.

He lights his cigarette and calls Rey at the same time, settling on the back steps.

“Hi, baby.” She sounds breathless as she answers.

When he hears her voice, Ben's heart glows like the fairylights his mother has strung up all over the house. “Hi.”

There are voices in the background, then a door shutting. “Sorry, I'm just going outside.”

He has a sudden vivid image of Rey stepping out into the California dusk, seeing the same stars that are shining in the night sky over Long Island.

He looks up at them. “I'm outside too.”

“Yeah, I can hear you talking around your cigarette.”

Ben snorts; inhales, then takes it out. “I'll quit soon. Promise.”

“That can be my other Christmas present.” Her voice softens. “Thank you. For the bag.”

 _What on earth do I buy a girl for Christmas?_ Ben had asked Poe, who'd only shrugged and pointed at his own boyfriend. _Don't ask me._ Hux had been at the other end of the grocery store aisle, perusing the available range of wines.

“But seriously,” Poe had added. “What does she like?”

Rey likes horses. _I’ve been riding since I was little,_ she’d told him that first day on the edge of Chicago, reins in her hand and BB, a brazen chestnut tobiano, at her side. The horse had nudged Ben hard in the face and he’d been reminded again why he never visited his uncle’s stables.

And then he saw Rey smile, and that changed.

But Ben still knows nothing about horseback riding— _equestrianism_ , Rey is always saying—so he’d tackled the problem of Christmas the way he tackles everything; with $620 for a speciality— _equestrian,_ Rey’s voice in his head says—rucksack.

He’s felt self-conscious about it all day—how romantic is a bag, really, even with its _hand-processed super soft leather_ and general practicality?—but Rey’s voice eases the tension in his shoulders.

“Yeah?”

“Honestly, it’s perfect. No one’s ever…” She trails off. “Well. I love it. Thank you.”

Ben feels flushed with her gratitude, even from 2940 miles away. He imagines her on the ranch, with the mountains on the horizon and the stables at her back. There's the faintest drift of voices in the gap between her words; he guesses it's the other ranch hands, celebrating Christmas out there on the edge of the wilderness. He’s sure that, somewhere, there's a campfire.

Ben feels a sharp pinch of jealousy, and pushes it back down. It's not Rey’s fault they're not spending their first Christmas together, not really; she'd arranged her winter work long before they'd met, long before the prospect of staying in Chicago for more than the summer had entered her head.

 _I don’t really care about Christmas anyway_ , she’d shrugged. _There was never much of an opportunity to have one._

“Hey, did I say my mom thought you’d captured my nose very well?” he says instead.

Rey laughs. Even through the tinny speaker of his cell, it's the most beautiful sound.

“She did?”

“Mmm-hmm. And my hair.” Leia had taken the drawing off Ben almost as soon as he'd unwrapped it, examining Rey’s handiwork. “Actually she just really loved the whole thing. I think she wishes it was her present.”

Where Ben had shown his affection through cash, Rey has swung towards the deeply personal (if pointed); it's a rough little drawing of Ben on a horse, face contorted in surprise as it starts to throw him off. _In lieu of the Breitling I can't afford,_ she's written underneath her signature.

Ben thinks it's the nicest gift he's ever received.

“I’m glad. I was worried it wasn’t—”

She’s whispered her fears in Ben’s ear before, late at night; so he knows what they are when the silence stretches. _I’m worried that I’m not enough._

“It is.” _You are._

“Did you have a good day?” she asks gently.

The absence of his father has been looming like a ghost, making everything feel muffled, warped. Leia has moved a little slower than last year, and they’ve said less to each other. Even Chewie’s been quiet, chin on his folded paws.

“Good enough.” He starts his cigarette again. “Better now I’m talking to you.”

She hums, a happy little sound. Ben can tell she’s smiling.

“Me too.”

“I thought you were having a great time?”

For the last two months she’s been sending him pictures of happy, smiling faces—horse and human—and they’ve been a blessing and a curse. It should be Ben watching the sun rise on Rey’s face, the rough grass under the hooves of her horse and the dawn moving from lilac to orange. Instead it’s Finn and Rose, and Ben resents them strongly.

“I am. I just miss you.”

“Counting down the days?”

“Yes.”

Her voice is firm, taking his joke and making it something sincere. It cuts through him; softens him.

“Me too,” he echoes. “It’s like I’m waiting for time to start again.”

“I know.” A pause. “It’s only four days.”

Four days. It’s like a mountain he must climb. It’s been bothering him—for two months, really, ever since he watched her walk away inside O’Hare airport—but now her absence crescendos, crashing over him like a wave. Ben hasn’t cared about Christmas in years, but suddenly it’s something that should be _theirs;_ not the season of some random ranch out in the middle of nowhere, of his mother’s house in Long Island with all its empty, fatherless spaces.

Ben has the sudden vivid memory of watching the Rockefeller Center tree light up, washing his father's face in gold and red and green.

An idea roots in his head; his adrenaline spikes and the hairs on his arms prickle with it.

There’s the slamming of a door on Rey’s end of the line, and he hears footsteps.

“I’ll just be two secs,” she says, muffled, speaking to somewhere else, and Ben hears the timbre of Finn’s voice before Rey seems to move closer again. “The food's ready.”

Of course. Ben briefly checks the time on his cell. Rey’s three hours behind.

“Sorry, I should have called later.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll probably be asleep by then anyway. I was up early.”

Ben knows; she’d sent him a picture of the sunrise.

“Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Baby—” and his heart _still_ stops every time she says that, “—you can call me any time. Just leave me voicemails if I’m out with the horses.”

 _Only old people leave voicemails_ , she’d said the first time he did it. Now she texts him _thank u xxx_ whenever he does.

They say goodbye (too quickly for Ben’s liking), and the night sounds even quieter without her voice in it. As though the dog knows, Chewie pads out onto the porch and nudges Ben’s knee with his wet nose.

“Yeah.” Ben pets him absentmindedly. “You’d miss her too, if you’d met her.”

He watches the smoke from his cigarette rise, drifting across his view of the moon, and he makes up his mind.

Ben grunts when he stands—god, is thirty-five old? Is he old now?—and heads back inside. He checks on Leia (still asleep) and then settles himself in the kitchen, turns on the light over the stove. The idea has gotten hold of him now, gripping like a madness; he can think of nothing else.

He grabs his MacBook, still on the counter, and googles _plan perfect christmas?_

 _About 244,000,000 results,_ Google tells him.

Ben sighs.

Outside, it begins to snow.

 

**27**

“So, let me get this right.” Poe takes a bite of the gingerbread man he hasn’t paid for yet. “Rey has no idea that you—that _I'm—_ turning your apartment into a winter wonderland for New Year?”

“I never said _winter wonderland._ ” Ben hunches his shoulders and keeps pushing the cart. “I just want it to look…Christmassy.”

From Poe’s other side, Hux snorts. “Well, this is a start.”

They’ve made him drive all the way out to Hermosa for this; a seemingly never-ending Walmart Supercenter aisle (“Wal-Mart? You want me to shop at _Wal-Mart_?”) stuffed with Christmas decorations at post-holiday half-prices. There’s a dead-eyed plastic elf staring at Ben from the shelves as they traipse by. His internal GPS keeps telling him to make a U-turn and head back to Whole Foods.

“Okay, you need this,” Poe decrees, grabbing a large plastic pine wreath and throwing it into the cart. Next it’s three boxes of lights _(_ _500 LED Count 40-yard Indoor/Outdoor Christmas Lights, Multicolor_ _)_. “And these.”

“No, no, stop—where am I going to put one-thousand five-hundred Christmas lights?”

“I don’t know, somewhere.”

“Your apartment is big enough,” Hux adds, dry.

“Seriously, just—hang them up around your windows or something.” Poe walks on, barely looking over his shoulder. “You said you wanted Christmassy, _lights_ are Christmassy— _ah!_ Okay, now, this is what you _really_ need.”

Ben lets the cart roll to a stop in front of a display of fake plastic Christmas trees, all set up and decorated. Poe is vibrating with excitement as he walks between them, like it’s a fairytale forest and not the middle of a grocery superstore.

“Didn’t he get all of _this—_ ” Ben asks Hux, gesturing around them, “—out of his system two days ago?”

Hux raises an eyebrow. “You have met Poe, haven’t you?”

A pause. Poe is about six feet away, leaning in to inspect a tree that looks like it’s made of rose-gold tinsel. This is the same boy who used to write letters to Santa in July, and make Ben do the same. Yes, he has met Poe.

Ben’s shoulders slump and he leaves the cart, follows Poe into the plastic forest.

“I just want something normal.” He eyes the rose-gold tinsel. “And tasteful.” He checks the label on the nearest tree. _7' Pre-Lit Canadian Pine (Candlelight LED)._ “This is over three hundred dollars. I’m not spending that on something in a Wal-Mart.”

Poe snorts. “Isn’t that, like, the cost of one tie to you?”

“I do not have a three hundred dollar tie,” Ben says, frantically trying to recall if he does (he thinks he might). He touches the tree and murmurs, “I spend three hundred dollars on important things from proper retailers.” _Like Tom Ford shirts and William Yeoward wine carafes._

“And Rey?”

He looks up. Hux is standing much closer than he was.02 seconds ago. Ben refuses to jump, but he does frown and ask, “What?”

“Clearly you throw money at these so-called ‘important things’. Is that how you want to do this—” and Hux gestures to their surroundings, “—with Rey?”  

Ben’s frown deepens; is Hux trying to make a point?

Ben rubs the fake plastic pine needles between his fingers. It’s what he _does,_ right? Spend money on designers and bespoke? Just like he had with the present. It sparks something in his gut, the same feeling he gets when he sends his mother $525 flowers from L’Olivier because he doesn’t know what else to do for her birthday; but he pushes back on it, doubles down on his resolve.

If giving Rey the best Christmas means spending $300 on a fake plastic tree from Wal-Mart (and surely, it must), then he’s damn-well going to do it.

❄

It’s actually a $564 _7' Pre-Lit Downswept Douglas Fir Artificial Christmas Tree (Clear Lights)_  they have to fit in the back of his BMW (boxed, thank god), and when they get back into town they stop by the Mag Mile, because Ben refuses to go home without the _Santa-riding-a-horse_ figurine he’s seen online in Neiman Marcus (“And yet you scorned Wal-Mart,” Poe says when they collect it, eyeing the display model).

“Okay, put that there.”

Ben does as he’s told, resting the Poinsettia in the middle of his dining table. He’s already been instructed to dress it with a table runner which, he will admit, is a pleasantly simple red with little snowflakes. In truth, Ben’s table—his entire apartment—looks less cluttered that he’d feared it would under Poe’s seasonal enthusiasm.

 _Hang this here. Set that down there. Put these over by the TV._ Poe’s military training shows. Decorations spring up around the apartment like off-season flowers, and Ben feels as though he’s living in a Christmas movie montage.

“He’s good, isn’t he?”

Hux stands with his hands at his hips, observing the fruits of their labor. Poe is balancing on a chair in the hall, arranging more lights around Ben's framed prints of the New York and Chicago skylines. Ben wonders if he should add London, for Rey.

“He’s great,” Ben replies; means it, over so much more than the apartment.

A pause.

“You know it's our anniversary today. Three years.”

Ben's stomach drops in horror. “No. I didn't know that.”

“Further unrequired proof that every day with him is an… _adventure_ ,” Hux says, the last word pointed; but he doesn’t _seem_ angry. In fact he’s—jesus, Hux is _smiling,_ a silly, soppy smile threatening to break out at the corner of his mouth.

Ben’s stomach drops further. Hux is usually so grumpy. _Why doesn’t he sound upset?_

“Why don’t you sound upset? I made you take me to a Wal-Mart and then I complained about being there for over an hour. On your _anniversary._ ”

Finally, Hux turns. He’s always had a sharp look, but now Ben feels analysed to within an inch of his life, and he resists the urge to step back.

“He’s here. I’m here. We’re doing this frankly very silly favor together. That’s all I care about. That’s all that—well.”

“You should let me pay for you to have dinner, or something” Ben says. He’s had half a mind to do that anyway. _Absolving yourself with money, again,_ his brain hisses, and he ignores it.

Hux press his lips together, like he wants to say something and is stopping himself. He casts a glance around the apartment again.

“It doesn’t look so bad,” he says, finally. “I’m sure Rey will love it.”

Before Ben can ask whether that’s sarcasm, Hux strides away; to Poe, who he greets with gentle touches to his arm, with leaning into his side.

Ben's heart aches. He misses Rey.

 

**31**

It's early when he calls, even in Chicago, but Rey’s got this one last morning to enjoy time with the horses; Ben's expecting her cell to go to voicemail.

“Anyway. I’ll see you later, I guess,” he says to Verizon storage space, lying in bed and watching snow fall outside the window. It'll be another forty stories before it hits the sidewalk. “I’ll be at Terminal 3 when your flight lands.” He pauses. “I love you.”

Ben ends the call, gets out of bed. The snow outside is thicker than it was even two minutes ago. His usual view of Lake Michigan is obscured by sheets of gray, as though nothing exists beyond the Burnham Park beaches.

Anxiety pinches him, like there are fingers flicking at the nape of his neck. He checks the roads on _NBC Chicago._ There’s some ice on the Kennedy Expressway but nothing, as of now, that will stop him driving to O’Hare. As for the airport—

_Current Delay Status: low but increasing._

“Hmm,” Ben says to the air.

He calls the chef at _Blackbird_ , double-checks the one-off take-out they’ve agreed to do for him (for a price); still going ahead, still to be picked up at 19.30, _yeah, her flight’s still on time._ He showers, then spends an overly long time deciding what to wear. He realises, looking through his closet and drawers, that most of his clothes are black and shades of gray; not particularly festive.

“Let’s hope she’s more concerned with what’s _under_ the t-shirt,” he mutters, grabbing one from the drawer.

The decorations don’t need to be looked over for the hundredth time, but Ben does it anyway. Wreath: good. Tree: great. Lights: one-thousand five-hundred of them, all lit. The musical _Santa-on-a-horse_ figurine is idling on the coffee table. Ben sets it off; it plays _Winter Wonderland,_ and he wonders why he bought it in the first place.

He should have slept in; the hours between _now_ and _Rey_ are stretching out ahead, and it’s making him nervous.

As if she knows, Ben’s cell vibrates.

> _thank you for the voicemail xxx_

His mouth twitches with a smile.

> _Glad you enjoyed my old man rambling._

>   
>  _always_
> 
> _im heading for LAX now_
> 
> _excited to see me?_

It feels like her hand is around his heart, squeezing it. Yes; more than she can possibly imagine.

> _A bit._

>   
>  _jerk_
> 
> _love you_

“I love you too,” he tells her tiny _Contacts_ photo.

Outside, the snow is swirling; but he wants to buy flowers—proper ones that have nothing to do with Christmas, not Poinsettias, or holly, or mistletoe—so he laces up his boots and shrugs on his coat, tries to get his hair to behave under a woollen hat. The only things he can’t find are his gloves; fingerless, knitted from soft gray wool, another of Rey’s handmade gifts. His birthday, this time.

 _How are you so damn talented?_ he’d asked her, and she’d thought about it and said, _I just like being able to give gifts that mean something._

Ben has to settle for an old pair from his mother; the cold is biting, even for a three minute walk to the florist. He asks for a mix of azaleas and daisies—he has some vague recollection that they mean _lasting unions_ and _reliability_ , and he’s trying so, so hard to be that for Rey—and then, because caffeine seems like the answer to whatever the question is (his jitters, mostly), Ben takes the short detour to _Intelligentsia._

“Where’s your lady friend?” the barista asks, smiling her innocent smile. It’s busy for New Year’s Eve—everyone in Chicago seems to be brunching—but she’s as cheery as if it’s an empty Wednesday afternoon. She nods at the flowers. “Are those for her?”  

“Yes.” Ben checks the time. “And she’s somewhere in the departure lounge at LAX. I hope.”

“Oh, she’s coming back for New Years? That’ll be nice.” The barista—Kaydel, her name tag says—slams the filter handle into place and presses the dispense switch. Steaming water pours through, percolating strong black coffee into Ben’s KeepCup. “Fingers crossed the weather holds out for her.”

As though to make a point, someone pushes their way into the cafe and brings a blast of cold, cruel air with them. Ben shivers; from the cold or his own concern, he’s not sure.

“Yeah.” He takes the KeepCup and tries to smile. “I hope so too.”

Before he leaves, Ben checks the flights again. _Current Delay Status: moderate but increasing._

“Fuck,” he murmurs; but nothing new from Rey. No news is good news, he tells himself.

Somehow the snow keeps falling and falling, and there’s a moment where Ben seriously considers getting an Uber for two minutes just to keep the flowers dry. He imagines Rey laughing at him for being so ridiculous, and decides against it.

His cell vibrates in his back pocket as he walks, but his hands are full, and it’s not until he ducks into the lobby of his own building that he can set the flowers down and check the message from—

“You know you’re covered in snow?”

Hux looks smug, wrapped in his own soft scarf and expensive coat, as dry as a summer day. Clearly he _has_ been taking Ubers around town.

“Hi.” Ben frowns.

“Oh, don’t looks so aghast, this isn’t a social call.” He holds out Ben’s lost gloves. “I’ve been ordered to return these. My beloved picked them up the other day in lieu of his own.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Ben takes the gloves; feels a spike of guilt, as though he’s been careless. For a few awkward seconds they stand in the lobby, until Ben asks, “Do you—want some tea, or—”

“God, no, thank you,” Hux snorts. “I just need to collect their opposing number. I have plans for New Year and none of them involve another extended visit to _chez Solo._ ”

The ride up in the lift is silent, and Hux sighs and takes the flowers from Ben when, with no free hands, he struggles to get his key in the front door lock; but inside he wordlessly finds a vase and fills it with water, arranges the daisies and azaleas whilst Ben is still shrugging off his coat. Hux mutters all the while. Ben is still getting used to his passive-aggressive form of affection.

Ben finds Poe’s gloves down the side of the couch, and hands them back.

“I mean it,” he says. “About paying for dinner.”

Hux tilts his head. It looks—appraising, like Ben is a company share, and Ben squares his shoulders, clears his throat.

Hux moves his gaze from Ben to the apartment and then back to him. “Just—well. It’s the holidays. Do keep in mind what’s important.”

“Uh.” Ben nods, unsure. “I will.”

A moment, in which Hux is still inspecting Ben like a dissatisfying spreadsheet; and then he sweeps towards the door, waving the gloves in a wordless goodbye. It clicks shut behind him, and Ben is left with a frown and the words in his wake. _It’s the holidays._

His cell vibrates on the coffee table, and Ben leaps for it; recalls with sudden, blazing clarity that there’s a notification he hasn’t yet checked. In fact there are several across his screen; traffic updates, weather updates, and—

> _okay_
> 
> _looks like my flight is delayed_
> 
> _half an hour at least_
> 
> _ill keep you updated_

There’s a picture of the departure board too, and then another one underneath, of an iced frappuccino in Rey’s familiar hand. Ben can see the airport is lit by LA sunshine, the antithesis to the view from his window.

“Please,” he murmurs, watching the snow fall thick and fast. _Please._

❄

Ben downgrades the drive along the Kennedy Expressway from _okay_ to _bad._ It’s icy and the visibility is poor, and the radio keeps cutting to weather and travel updates that do nothing for his mood; but he arrives in one cold, anxious piece.

 _Cancelled_ , the arrivals board says in unpleasant red letters. _Delayed. Cancelled. Delayed. Delayed. Delayed._

He checks his watch, then his cell again. There’s hours of messages from bored-in-an-airport Rey— _argh my kindle ran out of battery!—do you think they sell pets in duty free?—i could get Luke a miniature pony_ —and then a last one which simply says, _okay theyve got me on a flight!!! see you in four hours (hopefully???)._

She’s either declined or forgotten to provide the flight number or the arrival time; but he assumes, from the lack of any further ruminations on exactly _what kind_ of miniature pony, that she’s somewhere in the sky.

He settles into Terminal 3 and tries to push back on his anxiety. It’s busy with those waiting as opposed to those arriving. On Ben’s cluster of seats there are at least two other boyfriends, judging by the flowers, and he wonders, with a sinking feeling, if he should have brought the daisies and azaleas with him. Rey is his first love; he hasn’t had much practice with all this.

He watches another flight on the board click over from _delayed_ to _cancelled_ , and he drums his fingers on the arm of the hard plastic chair; checks his watch again, as though that will make a difference. It’s getting to the point where he might have to call _Blackbird_ , ask them to push back the food. He taps his foot in time with his hand on the chair; _tap, tap, tap—_

“Ben.”

He wakes to someone pushing gently at his shoulder. He can tell it’s late before he’s opened his eyes; the quality of the light has changed, harsher and more artificial behind his eyelids. Somewhere in the intervening hours—which must, he thinks, groggily, have been more than four—he’s fallen asleep.

“Ben,” Rey says again, softly, and he opens his eyes.

He’s slumped down in the airport chair, legs stretched out in front of him. Rey perches in the next seat. She looks exhausted. The overhead lights halo her, and Ben has never seen anything more beautiful.

“Rey,” he begins, tongue thick with sleep, so that it comes out slightly mangled. He straightens up and grabs her hand, holds onto it for dear life. “When did you—what time—”

“Just now.” She brushes her other hand against his face, holds it there. “And nearly midnight.”

 _Nearly midnight._ The words slowly filter through; a sluggish alarm starts in Ben’s head.

“Oh,” he says, still a little sleep-drunk. “But that’s—that means—”

Rey shakes her head. “It’s okay. I know you had something planned.”

Ben frowns. “You do?”

“None of our friends can keep their mouths shut.” She smiles. “I think Poe told Rose, or Finn, maybe, and you know how bad Finn is with these things, he just forgets—well, anyway.” She strokes her thumb across his cheek. “I’m sure it was wonderful, but—don’t worry about it.”

Ben thinks of the Christmas tree, and the lights, and the food. Rey’s Christmas— _their_ Christmas—slipping away with every second counting down to midnight.

He squeezes Rey’s hand again, and even through her exhaustion and what must be an entire _day_ spent travelling, he sees the light in her eyes when he does it.

“I just wanted to _do_ something for you,” he starts. “Give you, _us,_ a real Christmas—well, New Years, but—”

“Ben,” she says again, a soft admonishment. “I don't need gifts and food and trees to have a proper Christmas or New Year. I appreciate them, and tomorrow, when I’ve slept for a minimum of twelve hours, I will love them. But I don't need them.”

“Rey—”

“Not if I’m _here—_ ” and she nods at the space between the two of them, “—now, when the new year begins.”

 _I don’t know how else to show I love you,_ he wants to say; thinks of all those expensive gifts his dad used to buy in lieu of ever having a conversation. Han had been trying his best, but—

Ben has picked up a bad habit.

“To paraphrase a popular tune,” Rey says, tired and affectionate, “I just want _you._ ”

 _It's the holidays,_ Hux had said. _Remember what's important._

Ben tugs Rey into him; kisses her with two months’ worth of _wanting._ She is soft and pliant and warm; her lips are slightly dry from sitting in recycled air for countless hours. Ben’s heart is so full of her he could die right now; and he would die happily, too.

Somewhere, tinny television speakers are broadcasting the countdown on _ABC7 Chicago_ , and Rey and Ben both twist to look. _Ten_ , the crowds chant, _nine, eight—_

Rey leans back into him. Ben wraps her up in his arms, and it’s like a balm, calming him. _Seven, six, five._ Curled up together like this, he thinks Rey can probably hear his heartbeat.

_Four, three, two—_

She looks up at him. “Happy New Year, baby.”

He brushes her hair from her face. “Happy New Year.”

Rey smiles, and Ben knows, in this moment, that he will love this woman through every midnight hereafter.

_One._

 

 

.


End file.
